The Covert Christmas Mission Affair
by GM
Summary: Sequel to The Turkey Day Affair and others. Napoleon tries to make good his promise to Illya for a traditional Christmas dinner


Sequel to:

Turkey Day

Turkey Surprise

Another New Year's Eve

--found at ---

**THE COVERT CHRISTMAS MISSION AFFAIR**

by

gm

Pulling the collar of the black trench coat snug around his neck, Napoleon Solo tried to bury himself in the dark material. Many assignments – even his life -- at distant points of the globe -- had depended on his ability to blend into the surroundings and make himself anonymous, invisible, and undetected to the native population. In this instance he was failing. Utterly.

Backing against the wall Solo observed the manic insurgents before him, hoping the dedicated troops would be wrapped up too completely in their intent missions to notice him. Unfortunately, he stood out as starkly as a red suited Santa in the middle of a Pilgrim reenactment. Now why had he thought of such a bizarre comparison? Because both Christmas and Thanksgiving pressed at the forefront of his thoughts. An alien in an alien land, he reevaluated, twitching with discomfort under the expensive material that he brushed in nervous habit. What was he doing here? What was he thinking? Of making a fool of himself? Of besting his partner at a treacherous game? Of following through on a long-promised sentiment that may yet go unfulfilled? He didn't have the courage for this, he was afraid. Routinely he could face down a loaded gun or a torturer's instruments, but this was beyond the pale.

"You're not in line, are you?"

The screech came from a short woman beside him. Years of training to mask his emotions instantly and automatically clicked into place. The revulsion he felt at the hideous dyed-red feathers adorning a horrible hat, and the collar of her green wool coat, never reached his face. Nor did he react to the predatory glare in her eyes.

"No," he cleared his throat to assure a bland and civil response. "No – uh – madam – I am not."

Her keen and greedy eyes raked over to the nearby meat counter, then back up at him. "You're not after that twenty pound Tom then?"

He glanced across the small space between them and the meat counter. Under the glass rested an amazing variety of hams, turkeys, geese and ducks. Two days before Christmas at the butcher shop. The battle ground of housekeepers, cooks, housewives – not spies! This was not his field, and the woman recognized his weakness immediately. She knew her game and aggressively pounced on her victim, aware he was at a disadvantage. Being the only male this side of the counter made him obvious. The looks given him were indicative of sharks circling a prey. Now the most predatory of the pack had leaped and fortunately, judged him a non-threat.

"There's three more in line in front of me," she dismissed as she veered around him. "I need that twenty pounder. My boy's got leave from the Navy," she mumbled as she wedged in behind a taller woman hefting three shopping bags. "Bringing his two buddies. They'll eat me out of house and home," she grumbled, leering at the biggest turkey behind the cold glass.

"I should have worn a bullet proof vest," he sighed and eased his way out of the small grocer's. Breathing in a deep draught of frosty air when he emerged to the sidewalk, he shook his head, appalled and amazed, as a woman dashed past, stomping on his foot as she raced inside to instantly take his prized piece of space. "And a Merry Christmas to you, too," he grumbled.

Snuggling into his coat, this time to ward off the cold, Solo ambled down the street. Pausing to stare blankly at the bright and cheery Christmas displays in the store windows, his mind chewed on the problem. For a few years he had had been promising his partner a real holiday dinner. fanfic: The Turkey Day Affair Time and again he had failed to come through with his intended gift to his friend – a traditional American holiday dinner. Delightfully, Illya had somehow managed to whip up just such a meal fanfic: Turkey Surprise. That had been a sentimental and savory treat that he would never forget. However, he had yet to fulfill his personal goal of providing such an unforgettable meal.

Glancing down the street he watched another laden-with packages-woman scurry into the grocer's shop. It was a fight for her to gain entry, but through persistence and endurance she managed to squeeze into the small store.

"What was I thinking?" he muttered in amazement.

Even if he had managed to attain the food what would he have done with it? Illya had some leanings toward cooking, probably from his checkered past and a strong interest in food. Napoleon did not have such advantages. Though he did have the desire to pull this off, and at such a skill level as to impress his partner. If not do better, whispered the little devil on his shoulder. Yes, they were a competitive partnership, and friendship thriving on trust, affection and the ever motivational one-upmanship. He was not going to fail at this. They were both in town this week for the holiday. He had the intelligence if not the talent. He could overcome the odds and complete his mission. This could be accomplished.

What could he do? Snickering at the thought that flared in his mind, he smirked, amused at the shrewd reflection in the window. "On to plan B." He snorted out a laugh before turning, hands deep in his pockets, heading toward his car. "All is fair in love and war and cooking, my dear Illya."

Before he opened his eyes, Illya Kuryakin sensed something was wrong. Memory flashed to affirm – from the distinct smells, sounds and feel – that he was in his own apartment, in his bed, under thick and warm covers. As was his custom, the temperature was cool, the nip of winter kept at bay by a low thermostat, making the coziness of the blankets all the more comfortable. Comforting the mind as well with the knowledge of saving money on the heating bill.

His incisive mind also clicked quickly onto the exact circumstances and time. He had arrived home in the very early hours. A tense situation in Germany had been brewing. Solo and he had hovered at the office in case they needed to join the agent in Europe. Neither wanted to travel on Christmas Eve/Christmas morning, but were poised to make the flight if necessary. By Two AM Solo had deemed the crisis past and they could at least go home to sleep; on call if they were needed.

A beam of light hit his eyelids and he turned his head. Light? Listening, he heard no intruder, "felt" no other presence in the room. Why was there light in the middle of the night? Tensed for almost anything, his eyes split open covertly to assess the surroundings. Then the blue eyes popped wide in astonishment. Morning! Really morning. That was the sun!

Bolting up, he turned to read the clock. Ten fifty-eight. What? How could he sleep so long? Napoleon was supposed to call so they could go in and monitor the Berlin situation. Jumping out of bed, he moved to the kitchen to double-check the time. Shivering in his underwear, his bare feet freezing, he skipped over to the window and peered between the slats of the blinds.

Below, a few people in coats scurried about their business, but foot and car traffic was scant. Yes, most families would be inside enjoying the holiday. Down the block he spotted two children riding shiny bikes with ribbons still attached to the handle bars. They were having quite a time avoiding the patches of ice in the shadows. On the corner a man in an overcoat was holding the hand of a little girl as she tried to balance on roller skates. Across the street a woman ran out of her apartment and hugged a couple just emerging from a white Ford.

Christmas morning. Why hadn't his partner called? He hadn't set an alarm because he was sure there would be only a few hours of slumber before they were called out for an assignment. Had Napoleon done something stupid and gone alone on the mission? The suspicion filled him with irritation, then a chill of fear, then anger. That would be just like Solo.

The American had been sentimental and a bit quiet last night and early this morning. He had darkly muttered something about this not being the kind of Christmas he was hoping for, but did not elaborate on what his wishes might be this year. As he got older, Napoleon seemed to slip into more introspection, more cynicism, more longing for something unspecified – elusive-- in his life. Kuryakin attributed it to the rigors of the job, the latent fear deep within both of them that their years in a cutthroat profession at any time could come to an end – as if they had played out all of their luck. And with each year came the unspoken acknowledgement that the job had flip-flopped to become second place in their priorities. First place was now the partner. The other half. And it would be so like Napoleon to make some kind of noble gesture on this, the most sentimental of all days for Americans.

He glanced at the clock again. Eleven. Napoleon's badge number. Dashing back to his bedroom he picked up the phone, then slammed it down. If Solo was gone the communicator would be the better choice. Grabbing the silver pen from his nightstand he dialed in the signal of his partner just as the clock clicked to Eleven-oh-two. Eleven and two. Their badge numbers. Even in the commonplace element of time they could not escape the constant connection. Nor could they flee from the inevitable march of time, he growled as the hand swept to Eleven-oh-three. Nothing lasts forever, came the trite phrase, unbidden to his thoughts. Not even their partnership. Someday it would be over . . . .

"_Merry Christmas._ _About time you woke up." _

The cheery words from the communicator speaker startled him. Still moody over his dark reflections, cognizant one of them would not be around at some Christmas in the future, a growl accompanied, "Where are you, Napoleon?"

"_Where am I supposed to be? A floor up, Illya."_

A flight up in his apartment. Conveniently, Solo had found him an apartment in the same building years ago. It came in handy for partners always coming in late and leaving early for their job. More than once, Kuryakin had been thankful for the proximity to keep an eye on his friend in times of danger or recovery.

"_Just like the cliché, I'm home for Christmas." _The laugh was amusement itself_. "I hope you didn't display that attitude to Santa. He won't have left you anything under the tree."_

"I don't have a tree," the Russian countered, taking a moment to reorient his thoughts. Solo at home. He didn't go on a mission – solo.

"_Then it's your loss."_

Ignoring the smugness he countered, "Why aren't we in Berlin?"

"_Because Agent Thompson took care of it all by himself."_

"And you didn't wake me?"

The chuckle was warm and managed to convey wry _tsking_ just in the sound, as only Solo could achieve. "_What a grouchy old Russian bear you are. Call you up to tell you the mission was canceled so you can sleep in some more? Then you would have been down my throat for waking you! Have you had your coffee yet?"_

"No," he grumbled, irritated at the predictability.

"_All right._ _Then come down and get some of my good stuff."_

"I will do that." Clicking off the connection, he huffed a muttered Russian curse at his partner. "Cliché, Napoleon? Nye mogoo pojeets sneem -- nye mogoo pojeets byez yevo. Can't live with him can't live without him," came the muttered translation.

Opening the side drawer he pulled out a small and neatly gift wrapped present with a bright green bow. Since the early years of their association, they had exchanged gifts. Many were useful, most were sentimental, all were insignificant tokens to symbolize all that could not be said between them about trust, loyalty and dependency.

When the expected knock came on the door, Solo took a moment to survey the scene. The tree lighted, the aroma tantalizing, the telltale evidence removed. Just as he finished pouring coffee into a mug the door opened. Present in hand, Kuryakin, dressed in black turtleneck and black trousers, literally came to a jarring halt. The expression of surprise was priceless. The wide eyes showing complete astonishment. It lasted only a moment. Then the startled face shifted to wry acceptance as he silently took the proffered coffee.

'_Hold on, tovarisch, the surprises aren't over yet._' Pleased with himself for engineering a coup, he took hold of the wrapped box. "For me? Thanks, Illya. I'll put it under the tree."

After getting home in the wee hours of the morning, Solo had assured Kuryakin was downstairs at his apartment before he dashed out for a covert Christmas mission. Securing a small but fluffy tree from an already abandoned lot a few blocks away; retrieving the box of decorations he had stolen from the office party. Then he returned home to decorate in the dark hours before dawn. There was one small present under the tree that looked better than it should. Then there was the extensive juggling of agents and manpower and monitoring the Berlin activities until the sun rose to make sure all was well with the world. Manipulating manpower and operations was part of his job as the Chief of Section Two. It came as a career necessity. At such a holiday season it took a considerable amount of work. After that it was just a simpler matter of taking care of the meal. Fixing up a full on traditional Christmas for two spies, plus saving the planet in just a few hours. He felt pretty remarkable – justifiably so.

Rejoining his friend he noted Kuryakin's nostrils twitch. Peering around the corner the blue eyes widened again at the sink full of pans and dishes. "You are cooking?" His voice was elevated to an unnatural pitch from the surprise.

Satisfied, Solo just smiled. "I hope you're hungry. Of course, you're always hungry." With a flourish he took a pot holder and towel and opened the oven. When he pulled out a modest-sized turkey, toasted golden brown. Kuryakin gasped. "Ta-da! He placed the pan on the counter and dipped back to the oven for bowls of mashed potatoes, a sweet potato casserole, vegetables, and a foil covered pie. "And you thought you were the only one in the partnership to cook?"

Kuryakin dipped his finger into the sweet casserole. "I take back everything I ever said about your lack of talents, Napoleon. Any and all of them."

Smirking, Solo handed him a plate. "Accepted. Dig in. And I'll remind you of that –"

"You won't have to. I am – amazed -- Napoleon." Still, he searched Solo's eyes with a sincerity they shared only in the most dangerous moments, the most soul-searching seconds, or both. "I don't know how you managed to manipulate this."

"I've been promising to host a real Christmas dinner for a long time. I meant it. Merry Christmas, Illya."

"The same to you, my friend."

After digging into every side dish, with slats of turkey on top, the Russian took his plate and cup to the coffee table. Solo turned and scooped out generous portions of food for himself. Noting the cupboard door under sink was ajar he quickly kicked down the cardboard sticking out of the small trash can. No need for Illya to see the boxes that had housed the pre-cooked and complete Christmas meal. He COULD cook. He had seasoned, simmered, and roasted this whole covert mission so two spies who deserved it could enjoy one, old-fashioned, American Christmas morning. So he had cheated a little with the grocer preparing and cooking the actual food. Heat and serve – he loved America! All was fair in love, war and cooking.

Now what had the wily Russian packed in that small box that was under the tree . . . .

**Merry Christmas **


End file.
